


For the hour of great humiliation

by Naicele



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental proximity, Emotional Constipation, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Witches, stake out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 03:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10296938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naicele/pseuds/Naicele
Summary: There are witches, but maybe they are mostly a plot device to get Stiles and Derek to spend time in very close proximity.--“Stop that,” Derek growls.“Stop what?” he whines, because, this situation is worthy of some complaining on his part“Stop smelling like that,” Derek hisses, breath hot on Stiles’s ear.“How do I stop smelling? Dude that’s insane,” he whispers back.“What do I even smell like,” he adds and then immediately regrets it. Surely Derek can’t smell that on him, can he?





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is borrowed from the Karin Boye poem by the same name

**One**

“Ow,” Stiles winces as his toe connects with a sharp rock. His thin tennis shoes offer little protection against maliciously placed stones.

 “Shh,” Derek says, head half turned back over his shoulder, offering Stiles a view of his sharp profile against the night sky.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m trying,” Stiles says.

Derek turns around fully and hisses, “Just please, try to be silent.”

 “OK, OK, I will be as quiet as a mouse. Quieter even, because face it, mice are loud,” he mumbles under his breath but the amused chuckle from the man in front of him tells him Derek heard it. Stupid wolves and their super-power hearing.

They move on in silence after that. Derek stealthily through the undergrowth and Stiles trying not to fall on his ass and embarrass himself further. It is not as easy as the alpha makes it seem though. Stiles’ human eyes have a hard time making out the roots and other imperfections in the narrow forest path.

It is only him and Derek, the others are paired up, following their own trails through the woods. Spilt up they can cover more ground; it had been Stiles’s plan.

It had, however, not been Stiles’s idea to pair himself up with Derek. That had been Derek’s.

“The physically weakest with the strongest. It makes sense,” Derek had supplied.

“The stupidest with the smartest,” Stiles had countered and felt proud when Boyd snickered. Scott had merely looked worried and like he would start to protest. But because it did sort of make sense, Stiles had convinced him to go with Isaac.

In the end Scott had agreed and Boyd had gone with Erica; which had left Stiles with Grumpy.

Which is why he is now stumbling along in the dark, trying to be sneaky, trailing behind the bane of his existence.

They are attempting to gain intel on the monster of the hour. Something is responsible for a shit load of dead animals turning up in gruesome locations. Like the beheaded dear outside of Trader Joes. No one wants to see that when going grocery shopping.

So far only animals, they have been lucky. But who knows, maybe whatever is responsible for the killings are working up to something bigger. Like Stiles, or you know other humans.

“Better safe than sorry,” Stiles had said as he convinced everyone to this night time excursion. He is regretting insisting on coming along right about now.

Stiles’s concentration is fixed on where to place his feet and trying not to make a fool of himself. Which is why he doesn’t notice when Derek stops. Well, until he walks straight into him.

One second he is ambling along just fine, and the next he has a mouthful of black leather jacket and wonders what hit him.

Before he can ask what is going on he hears it. Voices whispering, not twenty feet away behind a low ridge.

While he tries to figure out what is going on a bright flair fills the air as someone abruptly lights a fire.

The next thing Stiles senses is the ground as he connects with it; air forced out of his lungs.

“What?” He croaks spitting leaves out of mouth as his face is pressed down into the soft undergrowth. He can feel himself weighted down by ten ton of muscles on top of him.

”Shh,” Derek’s hand claps over his mouth, keeping his indignant protests quiet. Any thought on throwing Derek off dies quickly as Stiles hears the chanting start. He can’t really turn his head enough to see what is going on, but the strange shadows on the trees moves and wobbles.

“Witches,” Derek mouths in his ear, breath hot.

Oh, Stiles thinks, that was how they managed to get a fire going so quickly. And also, there are witches?

“Some sort of protective circle, which is why I couldn’t smell or hear them until we were inside it.”

Stiles tries to settle down, hoping the group doing the magic thing wont spot them. Is a group of witches called something? Like a murder of crows or a raft of otters? He needs to do some research. So far witches have not been his top priority; obviously that has to change.

For a while he focuses on the quiet voices, trying to figure out which language they are slowly singing in. It could be Latin he guesses, but who knows, maybe it is just made up.

Every time he tries to move to get a better view, Derek just keeps him there by his shear weight on top of him. He estimates there are around ten witches out there based on their voices, a mixture of men and women.

It does not take long before he is bored. Seriously how long do they have to lie here? His normally restless nature makes the forced stillness feel like torture. His free fingers pick restlessly at the ground, drawing paths in the dirt.

A side effect of having to be still is thinking too much, something he otherwise tries to avoid. But now, left with no choice, his mind keeps wandering. Bouncing from topic to topic. From his school grades and upcoming econ exam, to his deteriorating relationship with his dad and onwards. None of it very cheerful so he tries to focus on his current situation instead. Which leads him to think of Derek.

Derek who is way too warm to have as a blanket. Derek who smells really nice, like oranges and coffee. Derek who always does his best to protect Beacon Hills and who’s gruff exterior seems to hide an almost boundless desire to save people. From monsters or just from themselves.

Derek who seems to shy away from physical contact, except when fighting or training. Except with Stiles, who seems to spend an inordinate amount of time up and personal with Derek. Stiles finds himself thinking that its nice in a way.

He tries to stop himself then because, yeah this is starting to feel a bit too nice. Things are happening in his pants that has no place happening anywhere near brooding alphas.

He tries to relax and think of other things, like lacrosse or what a group of witches are really doing out here.

Apparently witches are bad news, otherwise Derek would not be hiding like this and instead just flash the claws and the teeth and chase them away from his territory.

He spends some time wishing that they hadn’t split up. After all, he has seen enough horror movies to know that groups are good, like really good. Also, then he would not have been alone with grouchy the werewolf.

Or well, not alone. The group of, apparently evil, witches sort of keeps them company. Evil, because why would anything not be. That would be way too easy.

Seriously, nothing in this situation should cause the warm heat that is pooling in Stiles’ stomach. He tries to move slightly, but Derek’s weight on his back keeps him still.

The man weighs like a ton of bricks. Sexy, muscular bricks. He clamps down on that thought immediately because, yeah not going there.

If he is going to be honest, there is no point denying that Derek looks good, seriously a blind person should be able to feel it. There is, however, no reason why Stiles should be contemplating how Derek looks or how he feels draped all over Stiles. Yet here he is anyway.

He shifts uneasily, trying for something a little less intimate. Derek’s head is over his shoulder, torso and legs following the line of Stiles’s body all the way to his feet. He ponders that he hasn’t been this close to someone in a while, not since summer started and lacrosse practice was put on hold.

Also, this is not like being tackled in sports. It should be, but it really isn’t. He tries to move again, not focusing on the intimate warmth of Derek’s body on top of his.

"Stop that,” Derek growls.

“Stop what?” he whines, because, this situation is worthy of some complaining on his part

“Stop smelling like that,” Derek hisses, breath hot on Stiles’s ear.

“How do I stop smelling? Dude that’s insane,” he whispers back.

"What do I even smell like,” he adds and then immediately regrets it. Surely Derek can’t smell _that_ on him, can he?

He is grateful that the darkness hides the brilliant scarlet his ears turn. Stupid werewolf smelling power.

Derek shifts, ever so slightly on top of him and that is when Stiles feels it, Derek’s dick, hard through his pants, a hot length pressing down on his ass.

For a second he thinks he might pass out as all blood leaves his head and pools in his nether regions.

He laughs mirthlessly under his breath, “Oh my god, is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” because sass is the only thing his brain can process.

“You smell like sex, it’s just a reaction,” Stiles can hear the threat in Derek’s voice. It doesn’t scare him straight because this is just how Derek always sound when it is just the two of them.

“What, it is not like I can do anything about it” Stiles argues back.

He is close to hysterics now, his whispers breaking as Derek’s weight presses him firmly down, his body both hot and hard, all along his back. His breath harsh and loud this close to Stiles’s ear.

He tries hard to stay still but his hips seem to have taken on a life of their own, desperately trying for a bit of friction as his dick is pressed firmly in to the ground beneath him.

“Stiles, for the love of everything, please just stay still,” Derek sounds breathless and Stiles cannot help the whimper that escapes between his tightly pressed lips.

Instead his hips roll again, and the movement rubs Derek’s hard length up against the crack in his ass and they might be in mortal danger but it is the single most erotic thing Stiles has experienced so far in his life.

He is panting now, short aborted breaths, through his nose, trying so hard to be quiet. He doesn’t dare move too much in case the movement would give away their location.

He needs to do something though; this is killing him.

Then Derek’s lips are on his neck and then his open mouth. The wet heat sears Stiles’ skin and it goes straight to his head; making him dizzy with lust.

This is the point of no return he thinks dimly, too lost in how good he feels to care that he is embarrassing himself, indeed endangering them both.

He needs release.

His hips move in small aborted thrusts as he tries to find friction, every roll of his hips pushing up against Derek. He relishes the sharp inhales that his every movement pushes from him.

His fingers dig down into the soft soil, his feet scratching abortively in the moss.

“Fuck Derek, I can’t…” he starts brokenly, his whispers needy and as silent as he can as he feels himself hurling towards an orgasm of epic proportions.

That’s when Derek growls into his neck, so quiet he can’t hear it, but the vibrations through his chest and the faintest feel of teeth on his skin finally brakes Stiles and he comes in his pants with a long drawn out shudder, spasms contorting his muscles as he desperately tries to keep still and quiet while the orgasm washes over him like a wave.

 

Afterwards he feels limp, a warm glow in his limbs that is quickly being replaced by an acute sense of shame. He will never be able to look Derek in the eyes again, or anyone else for that matter. He will have to move to Europe, or somewhere even further away. Become a hermit because he obviously isn’t fit to interact with other human, or supernatural, beings.

Derek’s head is hanging limp over his shoulder and the weight of him is beginning to bother Stiles. He feels locked in, claustrophobic, a tightness in his chest making it hard to breath.

He began to shift away, trying to get Derek to move, it would be a relief if the stupid witches just straight out killed him, then he wouldn’t have to live with the embarrassment, he thinks bitterly.

That is when he realizes that he can’t feel Derek’s hard-on pressing into him anymore, instead there is the beginning of a wet patch, slowly seeping through Stiles’s worn sweatpants.

The tendrils of panic that had been slowly building are replaced by something close to glee.

He suppresses a delighted laugh, “Dude, did you just come in your pants?” he says, trying to keep the laughter bubbling up inside him in check.

“Shut up Stiles,” Derek whispers back, but it lacks its normal feral tone. Instead his voice sounds soft, and if it didn’t sound so impossible Stiles would have thought that what Derek is doing with his face on Stiles neck is snuggling.

 

It takes another fifteen minutes or so for the witches to finish up and leave. And then another ten before Derek deems it safe enough for them to get up and go back to the car.

In his post orgasm glow the entire thing might have seemed funny, but as he trails behind Derek back to the Jeep, his pants cold and sticky, doubt washes over him like waves.

Once the car is in sight he breaths out a sigh in relief.

“We are not talking about this,” Derek interrupts his silent panic as he reaches for the handle of the passenger door.

“Dude, I didn’t say a word,” Stiles says, affronted.

Derek just stares at him, one eyebrow lifted.

“You say dude a lot,” he says eventually and turns away.

“Whatever,” Stiles adds. Not talking about this, he can do that.

Go home, have a shower, wash his clothes and pretend that, this, whatever it was, never happened.

Good, he is good.

 

 

**Two**

 

He is so not good.

A week after and he has not seen Derek once and he still spends every waking moment questioning life, the universe, and everything. Ok, so maybe not the universe, but the rest of it.

For the first 36 hours he tries to pretend that it had just been hormones and unlucky circumstances. But after waking up two mornings in a row, hard as a rock from dreams of dark stubble and imposing eyebrows he figures that maybe a certain wolf man was key in the whole situation

And if he has to be frank with himself, it is not like Derek’s physique hasn’t been something Stiles have noticed. Noticed and spent some time thinking about.

He had just assumed everyone thought about Derek Hale like that. How could they not, he looked like sex on legs. But maybe, he has to admit as he jerks off in the shower, fist in his mouth to keep the moans down, it is more Stiles and less everyone who sees Derek this way.

Anyway, it is an eye opener. About a lot of things. It surely explained why he hasn’t minded the showing and manhandling from Derek in the past.

The next couple of days he spends fighting a minor sexuality crisis. Although in between moments of “oh shit am I bisexual or just Derek sexual, or what is this,” he has to fight down a smile because he is almost not a virgin anymore. Or at least he has gotten off together with someone; in Stiles’s book this counts.

Amidst the confusion he tries to keep up with school and learn everything he can about witches. A group of witches is apparently called a Coven.

Both his research and Scott pestering Deaton come up with nothing. Apparently animal sacrifice is just too common in spells to narrow it down to anything helpful. Whenever Stiles ask, Isaac keeps insisting Derek doesn’t know anything new either.

In the meantime, no more dead animals, but Stiles is sure that this is just the calm before the storm. Something is brewing, he can feel it.

 

It is Friday and Stiles is sprawled all over Derek’s couch, tossing his phone up in the air and catching it, over and over. The repeated action keeps his mind and eyes from drifting. Derek is wearing a dark grey Henley, top two buttons open, and Stiles is not looking at him.

When he walked into the loft earlier, the sight of Derek’s collarbone almost visible had stopped him dead. Only Scott stumbling into him from behind as he blocked the door had unfrozen him. In some sort of miraculous display of self-control, he had made his way over to the couch without making a further fool out of himself.

He even managed a casual greeting to both Derek and Isaac. None of whom looked at him, but whatever.

Now he doesn’t dare look over to where Derek is stalking back and forth on the other side of the room. He fears that if he looks then that will lead to wanting to touch and that will mean starting to smell of … stuff. Stuff he really prefers none of the other werewolves pick up on.

It is driving him crazy though and Scott keeps sending him weird sideway glances like he knows something is up. But Stiles ignores him, he is not ready to talk about this.

Scott has always been a springboard for his thoughts on vowing Lydia, but he doesn’t think his friend would be quite as supportive if he knew that Stiles has moved on to a new, equally impossible and dauntingly beautiful crush.

Scott might reluctantly tolerate Derek now, but being able to work together when he has to is not really the same things as inviting him to family dinners.

Stiles first needs to sort his own mind out, then maybe he can try talking to Scott. Until then, he seriously needs to make sure he does not start having amorous thoughts close to Derek, because Scott will pick up on that in a heartbeat. So would Derek of course, and Stiles figures that ripped off arms and legs lie in that direction.

He jerked off three times before he left home for the pack meeting, he feels like it helped, a little bit at least.

His silent panicking is interrupted as Erica and Boyd finally joins them.

“Any news?” Derek growls, and shit Stiles’s phone slips straight through his waiting hands and bounces painfully on his forehead. He succeeds in catching it in the nick of time before it goes careening down on to the floor.

“Dude!” he manages indignantly, as he turns his head back, only to see Derek standing mere inches from him on the other side of the armrest.

Stiles did not see or hear him sneak up that close.

Derek just lifts one sardonic eye brow and crosses his arms across his chest as he turns back to Erica and Boyd.

From where Stiles is lying he can peak up under the hem of Derek’s shirt, the tantalizing hint of skin and dark hair just about visible.

He is thankfully stopped before he has time to finish that thought as Erica pushes his legs off the couch and throws herself down.

He sits up, feeling light-headed as he tries to listen as Erica tells them that they have finally picked up a scent and managed to track a potential witch to a small occult shop called the Crimson Emporium.

A heated discussion follows involving a lot of, “No, I am deciding,” “I am not listening to you,” “I’m not in your pack!” and “I can growl louder than you!, Ok, so Stiles might be summarizing Derek and Scott here, the rest mostly keeps out of it.

In an attempt at brokering some kind of peace Stiles draws up a surveillance schedule. Which is why, the following night he finds himself yet again alone with Derek Hale and his abs, and pecs, and face, and just everything. Yeah he is so screwed; and not in the good way.

 

The shop windows are dark and Stiles can’t see anyone moving inside. Derek is still staring intently at the building. He looks just like himself, eyebrows slightly pulled down, the promise of a scowl.

At the same time, he looks completely different because Stiles keeps imagining what would happen if he licked a wet trail along Derek’s cheek.

“Stiles,” Derek says and the threat is unmistakable.

Stiles pulls back from the apparently very unsavory depths of his own mind, cheeks going slightly pink.

“Yes?” He says tentatively, the palms of his hands rubbing frantically across the knees of his jeans.

“Just stop thinking,” Derek adds, never looking at him and it makes Stiles want to wave his hands in front of Derek’s face just to see if he can still see him.

He doesn’t, and he doesn’t reply either because face it, there is nothing he can say.

He grabs his soda and takes a long pull, willing his treacherous body to calm down.

They sit in silence for almost twenty minutes before the crawling in Stiles’s skin gets the better of him.

“We could play a game?” he says.

“No,” Derek replies.

“Hey, why not, we can keep a look out and not be bored out of our minds at the same time.”

Derek must be genuinely fed up because he glances at Stiles for the first time that night and says, “What game?”

Stiles mentally high-fives himself as he tries to come up with something acceptable.

“I spy.”

Derek groans beside him, but doesn’t protest so Stiles takes that as a victory and begins.

He starts out easy, picking S for the street lights and Derek counters with T for tires. They go a few rounds before Stiles realizes he is in fact sitting on a winner.

“I spy with my little eye, something that begins with an O,” he says smugly.

Derek looks at him suspiciously while Stiles smiles triumphantly.

Derek looks around, trying to figure it out while Stiles preens. Then the werewolf sniffs the air and Stiles does not like the wicked gleam in his eyes.

Derek leans over, hand sneaking in and around Stiles body and for a moment he thinks he is going to die from a heart attack. His body goes from relaxed to super turned on in a millisecond when Derek’s lips stop a mere inch from his. He can feel the hot air from Derek’s breath on his mouth and he cannot help but look at the full curve of his lips.

Derek’s body radiates heat and Stiles lets an involuntary gasp slip out as he tries not to reach out and pull Derek in that last bit. He wants to devour and claim and own.

Derek’s hand sneaks around Stiles waist, fingers ghosting over his side, the almost contact sending electrical shivers through his body. But then Derek is slowly pulling away again and Stiles’ hands, too late in the game, grasp at empty air.

It takes his sex addled mind a moment to see the smug grin on Derek’s face as his left hand holds out Stiles’ Oreo packet that had been hidden between his seat and the door.

“Oreos,” Derek says as he tears the packet open. He grabs a cookie, twists it open and licks at the cream in the middle.

“What?” Stiles tries to say as he follows the movement of Derek’s pink tongue, but it comes out more as “Gaw.”

“Oreos begins with an O, that’s what you were thinking of,” Derek says, “Now ask me.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to shift casually in his seat, his dick trying to force its way out of his pants and his heart rate is still not back to normal. He is sure Derek notices because while he couldn’t look at Stiles before, now he seems unable to look away. His gaze heavy and intense.

“You have to, you know give me a letter,” Stiles manages to say while trying to lure his mind away from the R-rated direction it has turned.

“W?” Derek says, not looking at Stiles anymore, and it sounds like a question.

Stiles’s brain has time to supply a few words, none of which he is going to say out loud. Like warmth, want, wanking. Before his mouth can betray him though he catches up to the alarm on Derek’s face as he glares out the car window.

He turns around and throws himself down in his seat.

“Witches,” he whispers as Derek nods somewhere in his peripheral vision.

Stiles carefully sneak a glance out the window. The shop is now lit up and the shadows of people moving inside.

When he looks back at Derek, he sees him opening the car door. Stiles throws himself over the central console and grabs his arm and holds on.

“What are you doing?” He whispers, “You are not leaving me here!”

Derek just looks at him for a second, as if he is trying to decide what to do with Stiles.

“Fine,” he says at last, indicating with his head for Stiles to crawl out his door, where the body of the car will be between them and the Crimson Emporium.

Once they are outside, Stiles follows Derek up the street and then down the alley running beside the secret lair.

They move in silence and Stiles doesn’t look at Derek’s ass in the half dark.

They slink in behind and old, smelling dumpster and find the backdoor they had scouted earlier.

Derek puts his ear up against the door. He half shifts, eyebrows disappearing, to wherever eyebrows go, fur creeping up and eyes changing color. Stiles looks on in fascination, sometimes he still wakes up thinking that he has imagined it all, surely something so…magical as werewolves can’t exist?

Derek’s lips curl up in frustration, barring pointed fangs.

“Can you hear anything?” Stiles whispers.

Derek shakes his head. The shop must be magically protected.

“Let’s hope it goes both ways,” Derek says and pulls the door open, the old lock breaking easily when faced with awesome werewolf strength.

As soon as they step inside they can hear chanting and it is the same low key, rhythmic sound as last time. Stiles tries to make out the words but not knowing which language they speak does not help.

They prop the door back up, at least to a cursory glance it still looks intact.

They gingerly enter a tidy hallway; it is well lit and painted bright purple. At the end a set of large doors seems to lead out into the main shop, along the way several smaller doors line the walls.

The next thing Stiles knows is Derek pushing him into an enclosed space, hand splayed wide on his chest.

Derek closes a door and they are engulfed in darkness.

Outside the closet door he can hear voices, speaking normally in English and the sound of two sets of feet walking past and then the sound of a door opening.

The chanting is louder now, as if the doors to the shop has been left open.

When the footsteps outside have faded he reaches out to try the door handle, the door stays closed.

“Crap,” he whispers, because he isn’t stupid. He feels more than he sees Derek shrug his shoulders in the dark.

After a hushed conversation they decide that breaking out might just attract the wrong crowd, so they settle in to wait. Again.

Stiles slips his phone out and holds the speaker against the gap in between the door and the frame and press record. At least they will have something if they manage to get out of here.

 

Soon Stiles’s eyes begin to adjust to the faint light, he can just make out the outline of shelves stacked with what appear to be cleaning supplies and unopened cardboard boxes.

It is a tight squeeze to fit both him and mister ‘I am made of muscles’, Stiles has to angle his head sharply to the side to keep from breathing into Derek’s face.

All in all, Stiles guesses it could be worse. He could be dead, devoured by fricking witches for example.

However, it does not take long before the confined space to get to Stiles.

Or rather, it is the forced proximity of mister grumpy supermodel who is standing way too far inside Stiles personal space. Also, he is radiating heat like a furnace.

“Why are you so warm,” he complains, trying to wriggle an extra inch backwards, but is stopped short by the shelfs behind him. He is still touching Derek in at least four points.

“Werewolf metabolism,” Derek says, and his voice sounds extra growly to Stiles.

“Yeah, but why.”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why do you guys have a higher metabolism? What is the evolutionary point of it? I mean in general evolution tend to favor traits that benefit the organism; that helps survival so to speak. Like walking on two legs frees up the hands, and bam, tools.” Stiles thinks he might be rambling but considering what he might do if he doesn’t keep himself distracted forces himself to go on.

He squirms some more, trying, and failing to create some semblance of space between him and Derek. He can feel Derek’s breath on the side of his neck and he thinks that maybe if he talks enough Derek won’t notice how he must reek of arousal by now.

“I mean this has been bothering me for some time now, I mean, even magic has its rules. So assuming werewolves don’t follow normal evolutionary logic, there is still surely some logic to it.

“The fur should keep you warm when you shift, so really there is no need for a higher core temperature. I guess it could have something to do with rapid healing, a higher metabolism might go hand in hand with a higher cell regeneration…”

He doesn’t get any further though because Derek growls and leans in, slotting his lips over Stiles, pressing up against him. Stiles makes a sound he guesses he should be embarrassed about but doesn’t have the mental capacity to fret over right now.

Stiles opens his lips, perhaps more in shock than because of any kissing skills but Derek is there immediately, licking inside. Stiles doesn’t know what all this is but there’s that saying about gifted horses and mouths so he dives in, trying to give as good as he is getting.

He meets Derek’s tongue with his, tips gently touching and it sends shivers down his body. Derek’s tongue is warm and firm and Stiles wants to know what it would feel like all over him.

And this right here, Stiles could do this always and all the time. Derek’s body up and personal with his. He lets his hands slide down Derek’s body and greedily palms his ass though his jeans, and yeah it is as firm as it looks.

He might as well not have jerked off for a month for how fast he is reduced to panting and straining against the insides of his pants; hard and pulsing. Derek doesn’t seem any better though, he grinds his hips erratically in a way that send electroshocks through Stiles.

Then Derek’s hand is in-between them, thumbing up his jeans and slipping inside. It burns as he takes Stiles in hand, pre-come sliding his way as he starts to jerk him.

Stiles clings desperately, hands fisting in Derek’s shirt, trying to pull him closer, or just make sure he doesn’t go anywhere, or stop. He might say so, out loud and incessantly. His mouth on Derek’s ear, his tongue tracing it while he begs him not to stop.

He comes embarrassingly quick after that, teeth around Derek’s soft ear lobe as he spills all over his hand.

Before he can zone out in post orgasm glory he turns his attention to Derek, because he feels the need to reciprocate how good he feels right now.

What Stiles wants is to sink down on his knees and taste the soft, salty skin. He wants to hear the noises Derek make when he runs his tongue along his slit and then sucks him down, not letting go until he comes down his throat. There is no space for something like that though.

Instead he makes quick work of Derek’s pants, opening them and pushing them down. He slicks up his hand from his own come and gets two fists around Derek’s hot length.

Derek grabs hold of the shelves behind Stiles head, forehead creased as if fighting for control. Stiles is not having that.

“Let go dude, just do it.”

"Don’t call me dude,” Derek hisses but as Stiles twists his fist in a way that at least on himself works wonders Derek shivers all over and his hands grabs Stiles’s shoulders, face going for his neck. Stiles is reduced to short aborted twists with his hands as Derek push up against him leaving no space for his hands to move properly between them.

It doesn’t seem to matter though because Derek comes while sucking a bruise on Stile’s pale skin; nose buried in the soft hairs at Stiles’s neck.

 

Once they have both gathered themselves enough to find some toilet paper in one of the boxes and clean up they realize that they can’t hear the chanting anymore. Outside the closet it is dark and quiet.

Derek puts his shoulder to the door and it gives way easily, and Stiles tries not to find that sexy.

They stumble out and are met with a whole bunch of nothing.

“Wow, we are like the worst private eyes in history,” Stiles says as he stands in the middle of the floor of the empty and cleaned up shop.

Derek huffs in what Stiles takes as agreement.

There are no traces left of any rituals or frankly, any sign at all that an evil coven of witches had been there tonight.

 

 

Once back in the car Stiles remembers that he still has the sound file on his phone. He decides that tomorrow will be plenty of time to get it translated, because now he really needs a shower.

 

 

  **Three**

 

“It’s not Latin, its Icelandic,” Lydia says and pulls the earbuds out.

It’s a few days later and Stiles has finally managed to corner her in the library and puppy-eyed her into helping him translate the incantation.

“What are they saying?”

She lifts a perfectly formed eyebrow at him, “I don’t speak every language on earth Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs, because OK, fair enough. He needs another plan.

They putter about for a while longer. Lydia doing homework, something with numbers, while Stiles tries, very unsuccessfully to type what the coven is saying into google translate.

He is chewing a pencil and pondering his chances of grabbing Scott from Allison’s clutches tonight, because he is hungry for fast food and zombie shooting. When Lydia suddenly says,

“Something is different,” she looks at Stiles with piercing eyes, homework forgotten in front of her.

“What? With the witches you mean?” Stiles asks absently while considering if his chances would increase if he also invited Allison to tag along, with her aim she had to be a boon to zombie apocalypse survival.

“No, with you.”

Stiles pulls himself back to the present and points a finger at himself, “Moi? What did I do?”

“No, it is what you are not doing,” she adds, head turned slightly to the side as she considers him. When he continues to stare at her with a blank face she shakes her head and mutters something about thick heads taking too many beatings.

“It is like you are not trying to get into my pants anymore,” she says.

Stiles tries to casually hide how his fingers immediate goes for the thick headphones around his neck, which he has no intention of listening to music in. Because he had tried a scarf and looked like Isaac, tried to wear a shirt with an upturned collar but looked like Jackson, so finally he had settled on looking like a douche.

It turns out that hickeys are super obvious on his pale skin. He had almost missed his first period on Monday because he spent the morning looking in the mirror and poking at the purple bruise with both fascination and reverence.

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you not ogling me. It just feels… new, I guess,” she huffs.

He decides, very maturely, to run, because it is only a matter of seconds before Lydia will make him spill his secret, and he is still not ready.

He can feel her eyes boring into the back of his skull all the way out of the library.

She is right though, he hadn’t considered his ten year plan once while hanging out with her.

He is so screwed.

 

 

“The end is missing,” Deaton says, one eye raised in question and Stiles can’t stop the blush that explodes on his face. He had to cut the last 10 minutes of the ceremony because the witches could not be heard over the wildly embarrassing but extremely sexy noises of him and Derek getting it on.

“Ran out of memory,” he manages and Deaton doesn’t say anything so maybe he got away with it.

The pack is gathered at the Veterinary clinic, waiting for Deaton to translate the spell. He, apparently, speaks Icelandic.

“What’s up dude?” Scott joins him in the corner, where he is not simultaneously hiding from Derek while trying to keep an eye on everyone.

“Not much,” Stiles lies and he can tell by the way Scott keeps glancing at him when he thinks Stiles isn’t noticing that he heard the lie.

“You look like a douche with those headphones b.t.w.,” Scott says.

“Yeah yeah,” Stiles mutters, “How’s Allison?” It is a distraction technique he has mastered recently, and one that easily backfires. Stiles spends the next ten minutes listening to Scott’s monologue about all the wonderful things Allison has said and done recently.

At least it almost manages to keep him from staring at Derek too much.

“It’s a fertility ritual,” Deaton says at last, finally interrupting Scott.

“A what now?” Stiles says, “Fertility as in the horizontal tango, hiding the bishop, roll in the hay, the bump and grind?” Stiles could go on but he doesn’t, mostly because Derek fixes him with a stare and growls his name.

“No, not at all,” Deaton says, “rather the staging of the spell speaks to a more general aim. It is likely that all of Beacon Hills is the target area and despite what you might think when you hear fertility,” Deaton glances pointedly at Erica who apparently can’t stop snickering every time he says fertility.

“As I was saying, it is fertility on the grand scheme of things.”

“Not even the beast with two backs, eh Stiles?” Erica snickers but the humor is lost on Stiles, he feels… affronted perhaps.

Deaton continues, seemingly pretending that he is in fact not surrounded by teenagers, “Bountiful harvests, general well-being and such. Not that these area wide spells have much proven effect. In fact there is an interesting thesis on the matter from a Hungarian warlock. It hasn’t been translated, but I have it here should anyone be interested.”

Even Lydia avoids looking at Deaton, seemingly intent on studying a poster detailing hoof conditions in horses, lest he might force the book on them.

“So you are saying that the coven is not actually after us, or indeed anyone?” Stiles says, not quite able to believe that there is something occult out there which sole purpose is _not_ to try and kill him.

“Yes”.

“You mean they are trying to do good, not accidentally good while trying to take over the world or something?” Stiles adds, because seriously?

“It genuinely seems they are trying to do good,” Deaton agrees.

“Not, I don’t know, maybe make people do weird things?” Stiles tries to keep his voice neutral, “like fertility stuff,” he ends awkwardly.

“No, it would not have any effect on people, just on the universe in general,” Deaton explains.

“OK,” Stiles says, feeling relieved. He casts a glance over at Derek, who seems to have lost control over his mouth because the corners seem to be pulling upwards.

“You think this is funny?” he says, rounding up on Derek, needing to vent his frustration somewhere.

“Yeah a bit actually,” Derek says and that is a full blown smile on his stupidly handsome face. It melts the frustration right out of Stiles and instead of hitting Derek he wants to hug him and eat breakfast with him, and do some very adults things in between.

Derek seems to feel his shift in mood because his smile dies down and his eyes go a shade darker and Stiles might be staring helplessly.

“As I said,” Deaton says, looking between them, “no need for your normal brand of violent action today.”

“But, but the dead animals everywhere, are you going to tell me that shit is not the slightest bit evil?” Stiles is begging now, and doesn’t even know what for.

Deaton sighs and begins to pull out jars from a cabinet while talking.

“Remember what I told you about magic?”

“You have to believe in it for it to work?” Stiles tries, because for all of their talks, that is perhaps the only concrete piece of information he has ever gotten out of the vet.

“Exactly. You need to believe in magic for it to work. The more people who genuinely believe, the stronger the magic.”

“They still killed all those animals though,” Scott protests, ever the awesome bro at Stiles side.

“What did you eat for dinner tonight?” Deaton asks.

“Eh what,” Scott starts, looking at Stiles like he can speak Deatonese any better than him.

“A burger?” Scott says and it is more a question than a statement.

“There you go,” Deaton nods absently as he starts to put different herbs in a mortar, like that would clear everything up.

Lydia, always the brain of the group, comes to their rescue, “So you are saying we should not judge because what is the difference in killing animals to eat them and killing them for the benefit of all of Beacons hills.”

Deaton deigns to incline his head towards her and then he turns his back and goes back to whatever it is he is mixing. Stiles can tell that this is it, the audience is over.

After that the pack piles out and one by one they trickle off and away. Scott jumps on his bike, saying something about dinner with Allison. Isaac grabs a lift to the McCalls with Erica and Boyd who are driving past that way on their way to the cinema anyway. Lydia just disappears.

Soon it is only Derek and Stiles, loitering alone in a dark parking lot. Stiles keeps waiting for Derek to say something or leave; one or the other. Instead he does nothing, just stands there, like he is waiting for something.

Stiles begins to leave at least a dozen times but he doesn’t want this thing with Derek to end like this. Over the months they have been involuntarily trusted into each other’s way the wolf has grown on him. He wants to get to know Derek, like really know him. To protect him from weird shit and his own stupid decisions. He doesn’t think he could stand going back to acquaintances after what has happened.

He keeps throwing glances at Derek, wondering why the man hasn’t left already. Derek just looks awkward, out of place in a way Stiles hasn’t seen him before.

But he isn’t leaving.

It strikes Stiles then. Derek is nervous. The big bad alpha, is terrified of him, all 147 pounds and pale skin.

For a second Stiles feels bad about it, because when you take into account Derek’s spectacularly horrific dating history it makes perfect sense.

He does a double take at that thought because, does that mean Derek wants to date him, or why would he be nervous if all he wants is to go back to how it was before Witchgate? Yeah he is calling it that, suck on it.

He is pulled out of his spiral of introspection by the grating sound of Derek scraping his shoe against the asphalt.

“Do you want to date me? Or, just rub of some steam, or, oh my god did I say that out loud? I mean do you want to just sex me up or go out with me as well. Like eat breakfast and watch movies in bed and let me run my hands through your hair and, arg.., I don’t know what I am saying, don’t listen to me.” He finishes and hopes to the powers that be that Deaton was wrong about the witches and they choose this moment to strike. A life threatening situation is what he needs, some perspective.

“Yes,” Derek supplies and Stiles wants to laugh but is afraid that it would only make him sound like a maniac.

“Yes to what Derek? Which bit of that ramble are you saying yes to, because I cannot read minds.”

Derek looks sheepish at that and keeps staring at his feet, like he can’t meet Stiles eyes. He says something to his toes that Stiles can’t make out and Stiles is vibrating now, wants to reach out and pull Derek to him, but he also needs Derek to choose this, out of his own free will.

“What, what Derek?” and Stiles can hear the crazy in his voice now, he wants to shake Derek. Lift him upside down and shake; hope words fall out but most of all keep him safe and loved and protected.

Derek, visibly pulls himself together, takes a deep breath and looks up at Stiles.

“Yes, I want to date you.”

Stiles just stares.

“Can you repeat that?” he says after some very uncomfortable silence, because what? He might have hoped for that but it sure as hell was not the reply he was expecting. Stiles’s crushes do not like him back, that is the way of the world. Stiles is spastic and talks to much and does not have a chiseled jaw.

Derek smiles and Stiles realizes he said that last bit out loud. Derek says, more forcefully this time, “I would like to date you, if you want to that is,” he trails off uncertainly again.

Stiles thinks the correct denominator for the feeling in his chest is extreme happiness.

“Oh my god, yes of course I want to date you. You can smell me dude, you had to know?” Stiles exclaims.

Derek huffs, “Sex and dating is not necessarily the same thing. I could tell you might want to sleep with me. Dating is something else.”

And Stiles gets that, he bets that Derek meets a lot of people who wants to sleep with him. People who does not know all the awesomeness that hides behind the abs and rugged features. Not like Stiles knows.

Derek is smart and fiercely loyal. Not the best at making plans but dedicated to their execution. He can also be funny and he sometimes thinks Stiles is funny and when Derek laughs it is like the sun comes out after a storm.

He takes a tentative step towards Derek.

“Dude, I want to date the hell out of you,” he says, because he is suave like that.

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek says but Stiles isn’t listening because Derek is smiling and then his lips are on Stiles’s and oh, they are doing this again.

Stiles grabs a happy handful of Derek’s jacket and enthusiastically kisses him back.

 

They end up in Derek’s flat, because no way are they doing this in Stiles’s house.

When Derek kisses him, lays him reverently on the bed and picks him apart in the best way possible Stiles can’t quite believe his luck.

Derek looks at him like he is worth looking at, like he is desirable and that is almost as hot as the face Derek makes as he comes buried deep inside Stiles.

 

“Dude I fucking love witches,” Stiles proclaims afterwards. He is lying on his back, feeling blizzed out. His skin glowing, and there is no way he can hold back the smug grin on his face.

Derek just snorts beside him, but it is without malice and when Stiles turns his head the man is looking at him. Hair all mussed up and a lazy content smile on his lips. His lips which by the way look totally debauched, red and slightly swollen. And Stiles did that, he is pretty proud of himself right now.

“Just keep that in mind when we are knee deep in boring negotiations, because they are still trespassing on our territory,” Derek says.

“Witches are the best,” Stiles just repeats because there is something so intense in the way his heart clenches at the way Derek looks and how he keeps referring to ‘we’ and ‘our’, that he needs to break the moment with levity. He is not ready for that feeling just yet. Soon he is going ponder it in depth, but now he just wants to enjoy himself.

“Shut up Stiles,” Derek says but he is laughing now.

“Make me,” he replies, a cheeky grin on his face.

And Derek does.

 

The End


End file.
